The Squire I
by lyredenfers
Summary: [One Shot] On Lord Wyldon of Cavall (the sadist) & Owen of Jesslaw (the monster) in the first few weeks of their new Squire-Knight master relationship. PG for mild language.


A day's journey north of Corus and a few hours south of nowhere, Lord Wyldon of Cavall resisted the urge to stomp his foot or scream in frustration. Or just maybe, do both. Generally speaking, Wyldon considered himself a stable and sensible man. He had never taken to throwing temper tantrums, even as a child and preferred leaving hysterics and scenes to spoilt courtiers and (here he winced ever so slightly), the Lioness.

Yet this, this _monster_ he was supposed to call a squire- his squire no less- had nearly reduced him to insanity in one short week. Not that the past week had seemed short. Oh no, it had passed all too slowly; each second as painful being ravaged by the talons of an angry griffin.

Lord Wyldon nearly felt sympathy for the Mindelan girl and her tribulations with the mythical creature. Except, he noted with frustration, it was her gods-cursed fault that he had a squire in the first place! He could have been returning to Cavall alone, squire-less! But alas, this was not the case. The silly girl had induced him take a squire, thereby reducing him to insanity and inventing words like 'squire-less'.

Damn Keladry of Mindelan.

The former training master grimaced as he reflected that if he had a copper for every time he'd cursed Mindelan in the last seven days, he'd be a rich man. At which point, he could pay off some other unlucky knight to take the little beast as a squire. If only.

Wyldon sighed and paused in his violent boot polishing activities to take a swig from his canteen. He glared at it fiercely in dislike as he deposited it on the grass by his feet, but it was in vain. No matter that the knight's withering glance could reduce confident young pages to nervous wrecks, it simply wouldn't turn the water to something stronger. Something more… alcoholic?

His eyes lifted from the leather canteen and landed across the fire lit campsite on the person he had taken to calling "the annoying little over-zealous brat" or simply, "monster" in his thoughts and of course, the object of his obsessing. Namely, Owen of Jesslaw.

* * *

Owen of Jesslaw hummed contentedly to himself as he groomed the last of the four mounts that he and his training master –_knight master,_ he corrected himself with a grin- had brought with them on the journey to Cavall. There were two of Lord Wyldon's own mares, another one from the palace and one palace gelding. As satisfied as Owen was to be riding palace mounts, he could barely wait until they arrived as his knight master's home fief. Lord Wyldon said that Owen would be given his _own_ horse. If that wasn't the jolliest thing he'd heard since-well, _ever_- he was a bandit's best friend. Which he wasn't of course. He hated, loathed and abhorred bandits all in one breathe. After all, once knighted he'd be "Sir Owen of Jesslaw, best bandit hunter in all of Tort-"

"Jesslaw!" barked Lord Wyldon, his voice carrying over to the large oak tree where the horses were tethered.

Owen beamed. "Yes sir? Err, Milord?"

Lord Wyldon suppressed the urge to shudder and glared instead. "You've groomed Heart from whiskers to tail eight times over. If you were paying attention to the task at hand rather than dallying about in dreams—" The knight broke off as his charge's face fell into a downcast pout.

"I just wanted to do a thorough job, Milord."

Wyldon raised an eyebrow and kicked himself inwardly as he felt his resolve evaporate. Temple of Mithros, was he getting soft in his old age? If not, why did he always end up feeling the brute? _He_ was the victim here, not Jesslaw.

"I commend you on your dedication," answered Lord Wyldon with more than a hint of sarcasm. "However, you would do well to remove your head from the clouds. Dreaming will get you killed in battle."

"Yes Lord Wyldon." As many times as the knight had berated him in the past week- and it numbered in the three hundreds- the novelty of being a _real_ squire had not yet worn off. Owen set about dragging his travel pack to the tent that Lord Wyldon had set up before nightfall.

Minutes later, Owen emerged from the tent with a long-necked lute and seated himself across the camp fire from his knight-master. After tuning the instrument he began to sing a traditional ballad about the Old King's conquests. He accompanied his sweet tenor voice with chords on the battered lute.

Lord Wyldon had watched the entire process with a mix of fascination and horror. Horror won out.

"Jesslaw, what in the gods' names are you doing?"

Owen's singing broke off as he stared at the older man, his brows furrowed. Wyldon wondered briefly if he'd sprouted rabbit ears without noticing. He always found that disconcerting when done by the wild mage.

"I was singing milord? It's something people do… with their voices. I thought everyone knew what--"

"I know what singing is Jesslaw."

"But. Then…" the confused look deepened on the squire's face. "Why did you ask? Sir."

Wyldon stared. He didn't think it was in his job description to explain a 'rhetorical question', or indeed other literary devices. He waved his hand in resignation. "Just, never mind."

Owen made a move to play once more then put the instrument down before touching the strings.

"Was I really that bad?"

Wyldon opened his mouth. Then pursed his lips together.

Considering his options, he decided it would be best to avoid the question all together. "Last time I checked, I was to train you in the duties of a knight, not those of a court minstrel."

Owen's cheeks flushed. "But they train _all_ the pages in the music. Sir. It's part of being-"

"-a well rounded noble. Yes, Jesslaw, I'm familiar with the propaganda."

"Profroga-what?"

Wyldon sighed, and changed tact. "Jesslaw, will singing protect you from the weapons of the enemy?"

Owen wondered if this were a trick question. "Well sir, if I'm as bad as you hinted then maybe It'd scare them off. But," he continued with a slightly hurt look. "I really don't think I'm that horrible. Master Oakbridge always gave me top marks and I'm not half as bad as Kel. You know milord, I think she may be tone-deaf."

Then not wanting to seem disloyal he added "but she is sure mean with a lance".

Wyldon coughed and covered the twitching corners of his mouth. He also made a mental note to devote some of the remaining journey to the concept of 'rhetorical questions', before speaking in a suitably severe tone. "You would do well to follow Keladry's example instead of fiddling about with trivial things."

Owen's forlorn gaze drifted to his treasured lute before returning to Lord Wyldon.

"Yes Milord."

* * *

"Father?"

"Father!!"

"Daaaaaaaa!"

"Wyldon!"

"Father!"

"Father!"

_ Thump._

"Sir?" Owen ventured out of the corner in which he'd retreated at the sight of so many _girls._ At the sight he almost thought wistfully of his days with Sir Myles. Almost. He would have like to stay safely hidden in his corner of the Cavall entrance hall but had become concerned for his knight master when the man had disappeared under a pile of frill, lace and shrieking women.

Owen reckoned it was a bit much to deal with, even for a war hero such as Lord Wyldon. Owen hoped his knight master would appreciate the sacrifice he was making. Bring on the bandits and bullies, but _girls_ were just scary. He advance the mob cautiously. But much to Owen's surprise, Lord Wyldon surfaced in one piece and he was _smiling_.

Owen promptly fled to his corner.

The knight raise and eyebrow at his squire's antics.

"They don't bite, Jesslaw."

The squire in question was promptly given the attention of six, _six_ women and flushed crimson.

"Except Teresa," added Lord Wyldon as he fondly patted his youngest daughter on the head.

"Da-aa! I haven't done that since I was twelve."

Lord Wyldon feigned confusion. "But you're twelve now."

"Honestly father," she said every inch the disdainful court lady. "I'm _fifteen_."

Wyldon put an hand to his heart and winked at Owen over his daughter's head.

Owen stared. This was definitely_ not _the training master he knew and – well, didn't love.

* * *

The Lord and Lady of Cavall, their five daughters and Owen of Jesslaw sat together after the evening meal. Owen, still more than slightly jumpy in the company of the five ladies was unusually quiet. Instead of his usual babbling, he listened to the humourous reminiscing and various stories of Cavall escapades. Although he was enjoying seeing the unfamiliar side of his knight master, he was also tired after two days of traveling in the cold. It was a relief when Wyldon stretched and yawned.

"As much as it pains me to say this, I think I'm headed off to bed."

There was a wave of protest in the room.

Lord Wyldon sat back down.

Owen blinked.

The man could terrorize any page, squire, and a good percentage of the realm'sknights. Yet he backs down to these women? That confirmed it, girls are evil.

The second eldest daughter (Lara, no, Mara? Owen shook his head in confusion, tossing his curls.) left the sitting room briefly, and returned with and object which she presented to her father.

"Please Da? We haven't heard you sing in so long."

Wyldon was left holding a lute.

Owen let out a strangled sound.

The knight gave him what _almost_ could have been a guilty smile and as Mara (or Lara) resettled herself began to sing a legend of the sea, in a soft baritone.

The man was definitely a hypocritical sadist, Owen decided.

* * *

_Dear Kel,_

_How are you? Are you still finding the life of the own Jolly? If it isn't, just think it could be worse. You could be jousting with Lord Wyldon instead of Lord Raoul._

Owen paused, and shuddered as he thought about the, the _torture_ that Lord Wyldon called "educational". Owen wasn't sure he liked getting educated. He just wanted to make bandits an extinct species. Was that so hard to understand?

At this point, the squire heard voices next door in his knight master's study. Curiosity got the better of him, and he began listening actively. Which wasn't by _any_ means eavesdropping.

"… I'm telling you father, he's not normal."

"Oh? He's been here two weeks. Get to know him a little. It wouldn't kill you to talk to him." This was Lord Wyldon, his voice good-natured.

"I've tried talking to him! He just stands there and stares. _If_ I'm lucky he'll mumble something before running away. Don't you teach them manners as pages?"

Owen blushed. He definitely should have stayed with Sir Myles. Definitely.

"Owen of Jesslaw is a fine squire, that I'm proud to have had a hand in teaching. That, is the end of the matter."

Owen turned a deeper shade of red as the unidentified daughter mumbled a sulky "Yes, father". Had Lord Wyldon really said that? On second thought, the maybe next few years wouldn't be so bad. Owen pretended to be absorbed his letter writing as his knight master appeared in the doorway.

"Ready for tilting, Jesslaw?"

Owen flinched visibly.

It was official, Lord Wyldon of Cavall was most definitely a sadist.

* * *

a/n : Hm. Not exactly what I wanted. But if no one else is going to write me some Owen, I suppose I'll have to do it. Sigh . This is one of three short Owen fics I was thinking about… maybe the next one will be better. Cross your fingers.

As always Reviews would wonderful ;) Or alternately, write me an Owen fic :D

Thanks to WildKnight at the Dove for beta-ing.

Oh, and since the disclaimer isn't at the top, it's down here. I don't own it.

Ciao!


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